


Sell Your Clothes - Keep Your Thoughts

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fawnlock, Gen, clean laundry and clean feet, sulking and dressing up in John's clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns home with clean laundry. Sherlock decides he needs to make up for lost time while John was away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sell Your Clothes - Keep Your Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Fawnlock Dressup Challenge](http://fawnlock.tumblr.com/post/51348064222), this fic began as a faint idea and one line of dialogue before it evolved into a domestic moment between John and Sherlock. It was nice to be able to write Sherlock's usage of English and John's familiarity with his behaviors. In my interpretation of this universe, "Sherlock" is the closest pronunciation of fae language John is able to manage (Sherlock is pleased to hear his own name spoken aloud once more regardless of the accuracy of dialect).
> 
> Title from Henry David Thoreau and suggested by blessedjessed.
> 
>  **7.24.13 EDIT:**[Contest winners were announced](http://fawnlock.tumblr.com/post/56341221159). My fic did not place but all participants received an honorary award image.

John folded another pair of jeans, denim scratching pleasantly against his fingernails. Set them aside on the kitchen table. Dragged his basket of clean clothes away from the arc of Sherlock’s pacing. He watched the faun steeple his fingers beneath his chin. Ears flapping, Sherlock snorted and threw himself to the sofa. 

“Careful,” John warned, folding and bundling a pair of socks. “Sofa’s old. Please don’t break it.” 

Little more than an exasperated groan came from the sitting room. John lobbed the balled up socks at his companion. Sherlock let out a surprised bugle. Caught the offending projectile against his chest. Curled in on himself in embarrassment.

“Oh, come on now. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock frowned, lip jutting forward. Unrolled the socks. Pressed them to his (wet) nose.

“Clean!”

“You heard me tell you I just got back from the launderette.”

“Still smells clean.”

Sherlock kept the socks against his nose and cheeks, humming with satisfaction. John kept a careful watch as he resumed folding. Two cardigans. Pants. Another pair of jeans. His nice trousers for conferences. More socks. Mittens and a scarf which had gotten mixed in with the bin to go to town. John gave the knit a tentative stretch. It did not seem to have shrunk. More socks and pants. Vests and long sleeved shirts. Finally, he reached the last vest at the bottom of the bin and folded it on top of the growing pile.

Gathering the clothes back into the bag, he moved to drag everything back to his bedroom. Paused at the concentration on Sherlock’s face.

“Everything fine?”

Sherlock shivered. Drew his knees to his chest (tail nearly wagging against the sofa cushions).

“If you’re sure then—”

“Cold!”

John dropped the handles of the laundry bag. His hands rested on his hips. Sherlock’s eyes creased with glee as he stretched out on the sofa.

“Cold, John,” he repeated, voice affected with simpering manipulation.

“You’re a grown faun,” John challenged. “You can help yourself.”

Long, dirty toes wriggled at him from the armrest. Sherlock kept the socks near his throat.

“Put on feet?”

“Sherlock, I have no idea what you want me to do for you.”

“Put on feet! Put them on feet! Feet cold!” His deep voice rose as he continued exhibiting the dexterity of said toes.

“You want to wear my socks?” John cursed under his breath at the faun’s excited nodding. “My nice, clean, white socks on your muddy feet?”

Sherlock looked properly chastised.

“Clean?”

“Now you want me to clean your feet so you can wear my socks?”

Sherlock leaned forward, tipping toward John with one hand on the back of the sofa. Socks clutched in his fingers, he reached for John. Beckoned him closer. John caught Sherlock’s face in his palms.

“I’m warning you. This is the only time I’ll do this for you. Are you ill? You don’t feel warm,” he mused to himself, sliding his hand across the faun’s forehead. Long curls draped across his knuckles.

“Not warm. Cold.” Sherlock leaned further, testing the limits of his balance.

John steadied the faun. Guided him back to sitting on his feet.

“Stay right here. I’m going to put my clothes away. I’ll be right back.”

Ten minutes later — laundry successfully redistributed without interruption — John made his way to the bathroom where he ran a flannel under warm water. Hovered at the foot of the couch while Sherlock rolled over onto his side. A smile flickered about his lips. John settled on the coffee table. Ran a hand up Sherlock’s calf (they learned long ago that backs of the knees were vulnerable to ticklishness and resulted in frantic kicking). Tapped the side of a knee in silent request to bend. Pulled the leg into his lap and began to wipe away dried mud from the soles of calloused feet. From between toes. From the soft swell of the heel to the ridge leading to the shin. 

John carefully cleaned one foot before pulling the first sock from the faun’s grasp. Sherlock draped the other sock over his eyes. John slipped the soft cotton over the foot. Worked the sock up over the toes. Smoothed out wrinkles under the arch of the foot. Tugged the elastic past prominent ankles. Sherlock pressed his foot to John’s stomach.

“Now this one,” he said, arms extended. Sock held tight in his fingers.

John received the offering and the second foot hastily pushed over his thighs. Laid the sock over his shoulder. Cupped Sherlock’s heel in his palm to wash it. His fingers skimmed too near the crease between toes and Sherlock kicked. His hands flew to John’s arms, stroking over the skin in apology as he watched the flannel. Second foot wiped dry and second sock in place, John patted the thickening autumn ruff around Sherlock’s throat and down his chest.

“All done,” he announced, smiling fondly at the way Sherlock rubbed his feet together. “Feeling less cold now?”

Sherlock paused. Fingers tapping against his bottom lip, he rolled to his back. Scratched at the pedicles of his antlers. 

“No.”

“No?”

“Still cold.”

John stooped to retrieve the flannel. In the kitchen, he ran the cloth under warm water and wrung out the mud. Draped it over the faucet.

“Are you sure you’re not feeling ill?” His hand pressed to the freckled forehead. Idly traced the whorls of green tattooing over Sherlock’s eyebrow. On his cheekbone.

“Not sick,” the faun grunted. “Cold. Arms cold.”

“Do you want me to get the stove going?” John asked tentatively. Although Sherlock understood that the fire could not leave the belly of the iron stove, he seemed wary.

“No, want one of this.”

His hands reached out to tug at the sleeve of John’s jumper.

“I’m wearing this one—”

“I know.”

“—and I don’t think your antlers would fit through the neck.”

Sherlock looked put out, arms crossing over his chest. Lowered his eyes to his feet. Rubbed his toes together through the soft cotton socks.

“You’d get tangled up. Then you’d have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Soft one with fasteners,” Sherlock protested, fingers miming how buttons would hold fabric together. “You had it then. On table. Clean!”

“You want the cardigan I just brought back?”

Nodding, Sherlock prodded John with his antlers. Grunted and made as if to shove him toward the bedroom. John stood and held out his open hands. Long fingers curled between his. Sherlock’s eyes widened as his feet touched the carpet. His arms locked and his knees turned in when they reached the smooth wood flooring in the kitchen leading to the hallway. John winced as Sherlock’s fingers tightened, white-knuckled.

“Sherlock, look at me” John prompted. Continued leading the faun down the hall. “Look at me.”

Breathing heavily through his nose, Sherlock shuffled to a halt. Leaned against the bathroom door. His ears and tail waved apprehensively.

“Do you want to take them off? The socks?” John asked.

Sherlock butted his forehead against John’s shoulder.

“What was that?”

“I like socks. Soft. Too slippery on floor. Like ice.”

“Then pick up your feet. You’ll be alright. Just. Here, little steps—”

“No!”

Sherlock tugged John along in a stilted run, overcompensating for not picking up his feet by tilting onto his toes. Tumbling through the door left ajar and onto the firm mattress in the center of the room, the faun rubbed his cheeks and nose against John’s pillows. Kicked his feet against the duvet (folded carefully at the foot of the bed before it was disrupted and tangled and knocked to the floor). Rolled over to sit up and point a demanding finger at John’s chest of drawers. Feigning a dramatic, put-upon sigh for Sherlock’s benefit, John withdrew the cardigan which still retained some of the warmth from the dryer at the launderette.

“You’re lucky I was able to have my washing and ironing done,” John chided, wrangling Sherlock’s arms into the sleeves. “Town doesn’t have a launderette. I had to ride with someone who was already going out that way.”

“Missed you. Dull,” Sherlock sulked, rubbing at his ruff of fur curling over the neckline of the cardigan. “Not the same without visiting.”

John rolled up the sleeves to accommodate for Sherlock’s long arms and bony wrists. Slipped the final button into its corresponding hole. Smoothed his palm down a gathered wrinkle.

“I’m sorry. I suppose I should’ve thought about that.” John watched Sherlock stroke at the front panels. “Want me to keep the door unlocked? Or a key somewhere for you?”

“Key, yes,” he replied, clapping his hands on John’s upper arms. “Could do experiments while away. In bathtub. Or kitchen.”

John tried to keep the apprehension from his face. Failed. Immediately saw the change in Sherlock’s posture. Quickly amended, “Just nothing with fire. Not while I’m away.”

“Agree.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed — searching John’s face — and he nodded once. One hand returned to the cardigan buttoned over his stomach. Scratched absently. “Still cold.”

“Still—” John scoffed. “How can you still be cold?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Neck cold.”

“You have that collar growing in!”

“Cold!”

John turned back to the open drawers. Grabbed a scarf, a set of fingerless gloves, a pair of boxer shorts. Draped the scarf around Sherlock’s neck (“Loop this around like this.”), tugged the gloves past Sherlock’s curling and uncurling fingers (“Keeps your wrists warm which keeps you warm.”), and guided Sherlock’s feet into the legs of the boxers (“Pull them up— Not too hard!”). Thighs drawn to his stomach, dressed in detergent fresh laundry, Sherlock chuckled to himself deep in his chest. Flipped up the collar of the cardigan to inhale deeply into the knit cables.

Pushing himself backward by his heels, Sherlock settled back against the headboard of John’s bed. Patted the mattress by his side. John crouched to retrieve the duvet and settled heavily by the faun. Leaned against the slope of Sherlock’s shoulder. He pulled the duvet over their legs.

“Are you warm yet?”

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist. Snuffled into John’s hair. “Was never cold.”

“I know, you great lump.”

“Tired?”

“A bit.”

Sherlock flipped back a corner of the duvet. Prodded at John’s thigh. “Go to sleep.”

“I would,” John laughed, swatting at the faun’s hip, “if your rump wasn’t currently on my pillow!”

Sherlock shifted to one leg, tail trapped between his leg and the pillow. “Here.”

“I’ll pass. You use it.” John hefted the duvet back to his chest. Bundled up the fabric. Laid face down into the quilted pattern of checkered blues and greens. “Please don’t go running off into the woods in my clothes.” 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock sighed. “Will stay right here.”

John yawned, counting his breaths. Felt the span of Sherlock’s palm settle between his shoulder blades to rub soothing circles. Fell asleep to the faint hum of Sherlock singing in fae tongue.


End file.
